


Believe in Death

by AteanaLenn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Complete, Cover Art, Crossover, Death has little patience left, Don't copy to another site, Fan Flashworks, Harry Potter has no chill, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Pre-Slash, Stiles highjacks Deaton's cold water bathtub ritual without meaning to, Stiles is half a click from a permanent panic attack, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, author is not a fan of Scott, no beta we die like Harry master of death Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27780370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AteanaLenn/pseuds/AteanaLenn
Summary: The cold bath ritual supposed to help find his father goes sideways and Stiles ends up making a deal with Death that might just benefit both of them.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 62
Kudos: 908
Collections: Minions' writings, fan_flashworks





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Fan-Flashworks "prize" prompt and first published on their community on Nov 11th. Took me a while to finally sit my ass and edit it, but here we are. And by edit, I mean me, NaturalReaders, and ProWritingAid. I don't actually have a beta reader ;)  
> Originally posted on the prompt community: https://fan-flashworks.dreamwidth.org/2246056.html
> 
> —  
>  _NOTE: Do not reproduce this work in any form on any site or app, do not repost my works without my express permission, don’t copy to another site._  
>  _If you are reading this anywhere but archiveofourown.org or https://fan-flashworks.dreamwidth.org/, you are reading a stolen copy._

—

"There is a way. Maybe."

Stiles stares at Deaton. "That sounds like a big 'maybe'."

"More like a dangerous 'maybe'."

"Everything we do is dangerous. I don't care how dangerous it is, if it helps us find the damn nemeton and save our parents."

"Even if it kills you?"

"Yes."

"Alright. Each of you is going to need an object, something which represents your parent to you. Something with _meaning_. And then you'll need someone to stand as your tether."

"Tether?"

"The person who'll hold you under the water to die is also the person who'll bring you back. They need to have a strong connection with you."

—

"Melissa's watch and Chris' ceremonial silver bullet. What about yours, Stiles? This is an old symbol. Where did you find it?"

Stiles shrugs, rubbing the wall decoration with his thumb. It's always been a _weird_ choice for decoration, but all Noah ever explained about it was that it was a family gift, something every child received when they had their own home. His father isn't particularly close to his family — Stiles barely knows any of them by name — but the triangle has _always_ been on a wall in the heart of their house. But if it's a symbol that _Deaton_ recognizes, there might actually be more to this sort-of circle-in-a-triangle symbol.

"We've always had it. It's a family tradition. That's not important right now. Will it be enough to link me to dad?"

Deaton stares at the metal triangle for a moment, then nods slowly. "Yes. Though I'm curious about why your father would have the symbol of a supernatural fairy tale in his home."

"Who the hell knows. Help me bring back alive and you can ask him yourself."

The water is _very_ cold. Heart-stopping cold, actually. Stiles slides down in the water, panting as he attempts to adapt to the frigid temperature.

"I've got you," Lydia murmurs behind him.

He watches her manicured nails dig in his shirt as she puts her hands on his shoulders and doesn't answer. Hopefully, he trusts her enough to connect with her. Stiles is not so sure about that point. But even if he doesn't come back, if he can save his father before, it's all that counts.

"Yes," he answers.

She pushes, and he slips under the surface.

—

"Using a banshee in a ritual requiring a willing sacrifice, with my symbol as focus. I can't decide if it's brilliant or the stupidest idea I've heard in centuries."

Stiles sucks in a breath as he breaches the surface of the water.

He's still in the bathtub of frigid water, but this is not the back-room of Deaton's animal clinic anymore. The tub stands alone in the middle of an empty space. White tiles on the floor, white walls and ceiling which seem farther every time he focuses on them. Facing the bathtub, a _huge_ tree stump. Easily house-sized.

Stiles pushes himself out of the water, shivering in his drenched clothes. Then he steps out of the bathtub and there's someone else now, where there was only Stiles and the stump in the white room before.

The... person stands on his left. Tall, cloaked in dark fabric, a hood dropping over their eyes and the interior of the hood shadowed with darkness. Male or female or something else, there's no way to tell. They stand out like a bang in their dark cloak in the white room.

"Who are you? And what do you mean?"

"Death."

"What!"

The person sways on their feet. "I am Death. And you have used one of my prophet in a ritual in which the key event is a willing offering to myself, while you held my symbol in your hands."

"That's—I mean." Stiles can't _think_ right now. He's playing word games with some weird entity while his father might be dying _and_ they somehow botched up the ritual, apparently. "Look, I need to go. I don't care who you are, sorry for intruding on your turf, but my father is in danger and I need to find him."

"Oh, I know. But you are very _interesting_ , Mieczysław Stilinski, my sword."

"Oh good, name games using my true name. What is this, fairy land?"

"No. This is limbo. Usually, you'd find yourself in a place that was the crossroad of your life. But you invoked me." The person shrugs. "We are nowhere and everywhere, in your mind and in the nemeton's clearing. We exist between life and death."

"Fascinating, but I've got things to do, people to save. Why don't I come back later."

"Ah, but you cannot save him, can you?"

Stiles glares at the entity, nails piercing his palms. "What have you done?!"

"Nothing. Your ritual _might_ have worked, in other circumstances, but then you used the symbol of my hallows as focus. You hijacked the ritual yourself, my sword."

Cold sweat breaks all over his body. Stiles presses his lips together to keep himself from screaming. When he can open his mouth without emulating Lydia, he takes a few steps forward. He never grows closer to the nemeton nor to the entity. "Okay. Alright, I messed up. Can you help me? I'll do—I'll give up a lot for my father's life."

"No ' _you'll do anything_ '? Smart boy."

"Please."

The entity moves across the room until they stand near the stump. Walks or floats, Stiles cannot tell either way, which freaks him out more than he'd like to admit.

"You wish to know the location of the nemeton so you can find your parent."

"Yes. And disrupt whatever ritual the bitch darach wants to do. Deaton said the ritual would divert power back to the nemeton instead of strengthening her."

"In other circumstances, yes. Though I can promise you, you would have _regretted_ having fed the nemeton tainted power without rehabilitating first. You'd have saved your father, yes, probably. But for how long..."

He steps forward again by reflex, but this time he does almost reach the stump. Stiles stares at the entity. The frigid water he's dripping on the white tiles slides toward the huge roots buried in the floor. They shiver when the water reach them.

Stiles pulls his eyes away from the stump. " _Can you help_?"

"I can," the entity answers, the unseen ghost of a smirk floating between them. "But the true question is: what will you do for me, to get my help?"

"I'll give you almost anything, I told you."

"But what I want isn't what you can give me. It's what you can _do_ for me."

"I'm not going on a killing spree to save one person."

The entity makes a shrugging motion. "And give me more work? How would that be helpful."

"Then what do you _want_!" Stiles' desperate scream is loud in the empty room, echoing several times.

"I want you to gather my scattered hallows and then I want you to _free my master_."

 _What the actual fuck_ . Stiles stares at the entity, mouth hanging opened. Because finding the master of the being who calls himself Death sounds like such a great idea. "You want me to search for relics and release a final boss? What is this, a RPG? Are you sending me on _a quest_?! My father might be dying!"

"He is not. If you act in the physical world where I cannot, then I'll ensure that your father stays alive, whatever happens, until you find and free him."

"You can do that?"

"I am Death. If I refuse to take a soul, who can fight me? Though I cannot guarantee the state of his body, if he is wounded and you find him too late. He will not die for as long as I will it. But you would have to ensure that he is healthy enough to stay alive, once I release my hold on his soul."

"I will! I have a first aid kit, I know emergency care. But I'm not going to unleash a mass serial killer on the world just to save my father." His eyes burn, but it's all Stiles can do. There are limits that he cannot cross, and releasing a deadly entity in order to save his father is one of them, unfortunately. As ruthless as he is when his people are in danger, this is too much.

"My master is not murderous."

"The Master of Death is not a killer? Pull the other one."

"My master can kill. But he does not unless there is a reason. I told you I have no interest in getting more unnecessary work."

"Then why does he need to be freed? What did he do to get himself locked up?"

"Nothing. But he does not exist in this dimension. When he came to this world, reality reformed around the strongest point of magic which might support his existence. But the original magical creature had been tricked into servitude and then discarded in an unbreakable prison. I cannot affect this world without disrupting the surrounding. If I break the seal around my master, the backlash of death magic will infect the ley lines the nemeton is sitting on. Within hours, death will spread around the planet through those ley lines."

Stiles almost falls to his knees, his legs feel like they aren't strong enough to carry him anymore. He locks up his body and takes a deep breath. "Yeah. Let's not."

"Then you will free my master. Because my patience runs thin, Mieczysław Stilinski. Rare are those who can communicate with me, and even rarer are those who attempt to. I have waited two centuries. I will not wait two centuries more. Either you will help me free my master, or I will free him myself and transport him to another dimension with a living Earth."

"No, yeah, okay, I got this, don't... blow your top or anything."

"Very well. To reach your prize and free my master and your father, you'll need this hallow," Death declares. They pull a piece of fabric from the cloak surrounding their body and hand it to Stiles. "My Cloak of Invisibility will hide your presence from everyone's notice. Friends or foes."

"I run around with _werewolves_. Invisibility is nice, but they've got stronger senses than just sight."

"Which is why I specified it will hide 'your presence'. With the cloak over your head, no one will smell you, no one will hear you, and yes, no one will see you. The magic user will not feel the presence of your aura nor magic, and you will sneak past them and free my master. If they notice you before you may act, they will either kill your father or take control of my master before he can be freed. You would enjoy neither of those conclusions."

 _Fuck, the darach._ Stiles had almost forgotten that one. It was actually a relief to know that he had magical help on his side, and not merely claws. "Okay, so I take the cloak. How does that help me find the nemeton?"

"The nemeton has been _steeped_ in twisted, rotted death magic. It has been cruelly misused in the last decade _and_ the darach has spread her filth all over it since her arrival. You will use the cloak to hide your presence... And you'll use the focus to find the path."

"What focus now? Is that more of Deaton's ' _just believe_ ' bullshit?"

"In this dimension, magic manifests itself mostly through rituals. But there are some who may take hold and directly manipulate the wild magic surrounding all living things. You are one as such. Sparks, who may light the web of magic encompassing the Earth, are rare enough that most people believe them a myth. Your understanding of magic is innate and automatic. You cannot be _taught_. You can be guided, you can be helped in understanding the world's magic, but you cannot be taught the whole of your magic. But if you believe in yourself and your capacity to use the magic and mold it into the necessary folds, then you will have substantial power at hand."

Stiles takes a shuddering breath, pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes. _What a mess_. "Alright. Believe. I can do that. And what do I believe in for this one, then?"

"You believe in Me, of course."

"Of course. And the focus?"

"My second hallow. It has been used, recently. You'll find it with the one who was smart enough to decrypt its use, and cautious enough to use it without damming himself."

"... Peter Hale. Hell, I'd always wondered how he'd managed to come back to life. That asshole used Lydia to find the way to the living world, like I'm doing right now, and then he used your hallow to revive himself!"

"Exactly. Find the wolf, find the Resurrection Stone. Believe in the power of my hallows and the wolf will lead you to the node of death in the forest."

"Where I'll find my dad."

"And my master. Use my cloak to hide from your enemies, and free my master. He has the last hallow. My master will cleanse the corruption of the node and surrounding ley lines."

"Right. Easy-peasy, I got this."

"You do. Believe in yourself, my sword."

"I don't like how you say this like it's a fated title."

The air around Death vibrates with an unseen, _smug_ smile.

—

"Stiles!"

He bursts out of the water, lungs burning and body heavy with the remnants of death. Stiles scrambles against the side of the metal bathtub, his entire body numbed by the frigid water. He cannot breathe and stars burst in front of his eyes.

"Peter! What are you doing, take your hands off him!"

A strong, warm body wedges itself under his flailing arms and Stiles is pulled out of the water before he can realize whose shoulders he is clutching at.

"Let him go, Peter!"

"Back off, McCall."

Peter, who is apparently the one who realized that _pulling Stiles out of the freezing water was a thing to do_ , is growling. The vibrations reverberate through Stiles' body strangely comfortingly. He hangs from Peter's neck as the man manipulates him in a princess carry. A moment later Peter is sitting in a chair, holding Stiles close against his body warmth, and a thick blanket is wrapped around Stiles.

"Peter, what the fuck?"

 _That's Derek_ , Stiles realizes. So Cora is somehow feeling better, as he doubts very much that Derek would have left her, going by how protective he is of his newly found again sister.

"Derek, why is he here, what happened?" someone asks.

"I have no idea. We were talking with Cora, I just finished giving her... well, it doesn't matter. And then Peter's eyes flashed _black,_ and he ran out like he had the hounds of hell at his heels. You know the rest."

"How far were you, could he have reacted when Stiles was revived?"

"How long since Stiles came back?"

"Five minutes, or thereabout. But he was unresponsive until Peter burst into my clinic."

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

"What the hell is going on?!"

Derek growls, but it seems strangely different to Stiles. Less loud, less... strong. He never got the urge to fall to his knees like Derek's betas would have, when faced with their Alpha's anger, but there was still _something_. Not this time, though. Nothing more than the usual 'yikes, danger danger' feeling he gets when faced with a dangerous person.

"What the hell happened," Stiles gasps, even as he burrows against Peter's furnace-like chest. He's so cold that it feels like he's going to freeze even now that he's out of the water.

"That's what we would like to know," Deaton answers. The man is staring at Stiles in a way that would really freak him out, if he had the energy. "The ritual started but failed immediately after. I felt the magic swell with the deaths, and then it concentrated on _you_ instead of the three of you. We had to revive Scott and Allison in a hurry, without the magic sustaining them. You, however, were stuck in the magic field for a good three hours. What happened?"

"Right. Right, the ritual. Fuck." Stiles presses his palms against his eyes, then violently rears back. "Shit!" He stares at the Cloak of Invisibility hanging from his fingers.

"Quite. You did not go into the water with this, Stiles. Where did it come from?"

Stiles ignores Deaton, rubbing his fingers against the cloak. It feels smooth, light enough that it should slip right off his knees, and yet it stays right where it is.

"Stiles..." Peter's voice rumbles against his back. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Probably."

"Stiles. _What the fuck did you do?_ "

"Hell if I know. I didn't _mean_ to do anything. Well, except the ritual to find our parents."

Deaton takes a few steps but stops again when Peter growls behind Stiles again. "And what happened, if not the ritual."

"Well, apparently _a_ ritual happened, instead of the one you meant. My dad's decoration thing..."

"This one?" Deaton asks, pulling the triangle out of the water.

"Oh, hell, Stiles." Peter's head drops against Stiles' shoulder. "That was not your brightest idea."

"Yeah, well, I didn't _know_ what it represented, okay!"

"And what does it represent, then?"

"It's the Sign of the Deathly Hallows, Death's relics," Peter explains solemnly. "A circle for the Resurrection Stone, a vertical line for the Focus of Power, and... a triangle for the Cloak of Invisibility."

There is a moment of silence, then Derek rubs a hand over his face and drops in a chair. "Are you telling me that _this_ is the Cloak of Invisibility?"

"And _you_ have the Resurrection Stone," Lydia guesses, glaring at Peter.

"I do. There's a reason why I managed the impossible."

"Okay, so what. Stiles has a, a... relic, you have another, what does it have to do with our parents?! We still need to save them and we still don't know where the nemeton is!"

"Calm down, Scott, I got this." That sounds a lot more confident that Stiles fells, but he powers through. He pushes himself up, wrapping the blanket around his body. It's uncomfortably wet by now and considerably less warm, but still better than just his soaked shirt and jeans. "The ritual worked, sort of. Not the way we thought it would, but I did get help. I know what to do."

"You made a deal with Death," Deaton murmurs.

"Yes." And he isn't going to be shamed for it. Stiles keeps his head high and stares the vet and the wolves down.

"Death? That's... That's madness." Allison shakes her head. "How can you even trust... whoever that was? Magic users always trick you, my dad said."

Peter got up and shook his head. "Death doesn't lie. They don't trick and they don't manipulate. They simply give you facts because death is always stark and final. What you do with those facts is your own choice."

"And I choose to make a deal with Death. They gave me a way to save our parents."

"And in exchange?"

"I'll save something of theirs."

"You'll unleash some unholy monster on us all!"

"No!" Stiles screams, suddenly _done_. So completely done. He'd felt like his emotions were as numb as his body when he'd come out of the water, and now his whole body had unfrozen at once. "I didn't! I damn well saved us all!"

"What do you mean?"

He looks back at Peter because the man's the only one who doesn't have a judgmental expression pointed at him. "They said either I helped in exchange for _their_ help, or else they'd free their master themselves. But Death isn't supposed to straight up act and touch the world, and freeing their master themselves would taint the nemeton and the ley lines underneath and death would spread all over the world. They said they'd been waiting for someone who would hear them and would act for them, but they weren't willing to wait anymore. Either I free their master, or they'll do it themselves, and no one will like the result."

" _Jesus fucking Christ_."

They all turn around as one, staring at Deaton with their mouths hanging open.

"Well," Derek swallows, his throat clicking loudly in the room's silence. "Given that I've never ever seen Deaton look anything but Zen, I'm taking it that the threat is very real?" he asks Peter.

" _Very_ real," Peter murmurs, "very, very real. What do we do, Stiles?"

Stiles takes a deep breath, holds it down, then exhales slowly, pushing the threatening panic attack down before it can escape. "We use the cloak to hide us, and I use you and the stone as focus to find the mark of death in the forest. Their master is near the nemeton too. We find their master and free him. Death said the master would take care of the corruption around the nemeton while I save my dad."

"Who has the third relic?" Derek asks.

"What?"

"The Focus of Power," Peter murmurs. "If I have the Resurrection Stone, you have the Cloak of Invisibility, who has—Oh, of course."

"Of course what?" Derek asks, exasperated.

"The reason why Death insisted we use the cloak. If the Alphas know we have a plan, they'll follow and interfere and attack us too. But if the darach finds out that we're using the power of the Stone to guide us..."

"They might guess that another of the relics is there. Death said the Stone—no, they said _Peter_. They said I needed to focus and 'the wolf would lead me to the spot of death' or something. Why did they tell me to focus through you?"

Peter shrugs. "The Stone doesn't exist anymore. It was absorbed during the ritual to revive me."

"Wait, it's _inside of you_?!"

"Yes. To be honest, the ritual shouldn't have worked. I was completely out of my mind and pulling things right out of my ass. I'd been wondering how the hell I could have made it work, but I guess we have the answer now. Death needed a conduit. They must have held the ritual together, so I'd come out on the other side in one piece. And with my mind intact once more, instead of the post-fire madness."

"Yes," Stiles nods. "They said they could keep someone alive, or at least not dead. They must have held you together until your healing worked enough to keep you in one piece."

"Probably. I had thought I'd come back weakened, but if I was actually supposed to be dead... My body probably still hasn't repaired everything."

"Good enough. Let's go. You drive to the Preserve, I'll change clothes in the car."

"Wait, where are you going?"

"To save our parents, idiot."

"You can't, you're human!"

Stiles glares back, really damn tired of the whole 'you're human so you're weak' routine that Scott had going on since he'd become supernaturally strong. "And yet, I'm the one marked by Death and still able to tell the tale."

"We can help," Derek pleads.

"You can't, actually. The Cloak won't fit more than Peter and me, and once we're under no one will be able to track us. That's the whole point of it."

"I can—"

"You really can't. Look, take your puppies and stand at the edge of the forest, or whatever. You'll know soon enough when we'll have found the nemeton. I expect that the Master of Death will come up swinging and going by how Death expect him to _scour the darkness_ or some shit like that, I don't doubt that it'll be loud and messy."

—


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the second chapter! I hope you enjoy it :D

—

Stiles drops back in the jeep's seat,  _ finally  _ dry in his spare hoodie and fresh jeans. He was starting to feel like he'd never warm up. "How far are we?"

"Less than five minutes from the bottom of the trail."

"Death said I'm a spark," Stiles confesses.

Peter's breath stutters loudly in the silent compartment, the leather creaking under his fingers. He releases his hold on the wheel before he can break it. "I suspected."

"How?"

Peter gives him a wry smile before focusing on the road again. They're nearing the half-hidden trail that will lead at the clearing used as a parking lot by the hikers. "You need to use a ritual to use magic. And yet Death expects you to be able to use the Cloak and use me as focus without one."

"And if I'm not using a ritual, then I'm using magic freely and there's only one kind of people who can do that."

"Yes."

"Jesus. I don't know what to do with that."

"First and foremost, you hide it. Otherwise you'll have half the planet gunning for you. The things they could do with you..."

"Things that they couldn't do with a ritual?"

"Rituals take time to set up and are very rigid by definition. One single deviation will either make the whole thing sizzle to nothing else or detonate the whole area like a bomb at ground zero. Gathering supplies isn't discrete and someone messing up with your ritual, if they're paying attention, is nothing really complicated. A spark who can 'believe' up anything at anytime..."

"Yeah, I see your point."

"We're there."

Peter slows the car to a crawl, trying to keep their arrival as discrete as possible. They park under a tree right at the entrance of the clearing and slide out, holding the door from slamming.

Stiles stares at Peter, who stares back. Then he straightens his back and lets the cloak fall open. He whirls the fabric until it falls over Peter's shoulders and his own. The Cloak, which seemed barely large enough to hide a child, settles around them, the bottom  _ just _ barely touching the ground.

"You know what to do?"

"No. But let's do it anyway."

"Grab my hand and focus on me. You know what Death feels like, you've been in their presence, and the Cloak is one of their hallows. Focus on me, focus on accessing the power of the Stone of the Dead. Follow its lead. There have been many deaths at the nemeton. The darach's yes, but even before, when we still lived here. You know about Paige. Follow the deaths."

"Right. Follow the dead and you'll find your father. This is not creepy at all."

"Death won't let you down if you hold your end of the deal."

"Right. Let's do this. And... try to keep me from kissing the ground, would you. I don't hike well in the dark."

"You don't during the day either." 

"Oh,  _ shut it _ ."

—

They're close. Stiles couldn't say for how long they've been walking or where they did. He lost track of everything as soon as he started focusing on the power of the hallow in Peter and simply walked, trusting Peter to keep him from breaking his neck. It looks almost light enough to be morning, but they've also had one of the brightest moon this night, so he can't even say for how long they've been walking.

The smell of death is overpowering, even if it's not a  _ smell _ , not really. It hangs in the air and in the shadows, heavy and oily, staining his body and his mind.

The freakiest part is that some of it feels... cool to the touch and almost welcome. The rest is like stepping in a disgusting three-weeks-in-the-sun bog.

Peter stops walking. "Stiles."

"We're close."

"I know, I recognize this place."

"What now?"

"Now we find the cellar. I hid there with Derek once, we had hunters at our heels."

"Circle around and see if we can see it, then slip inside without being caught?"

"Tall order. But yes. Don't let me go, I'll led the way."

"Yeah."

He can't see her, but she has to be around. Otherwise it means that the taint the darach trails around herself is strong enough to feel like she's standing right there and that's something that Stiles doesn't want to contemplate. Death's Master better be able to deal with the darach, otherwise they're all screwed.

"There," Peter murmurs later, halfway through their circle around the clearing. He points at a shadow at the edge of the indistinct form of the stump, in the middle of the clearing. 

Stiles hopes Peter gets a good view of his  _ unimpressed _ glare. "Good for you, mister I-can-see-in-the-dark. Some of us don't."

"Then you'll just have to trust me, won't you?" Peter smirks, that complete asshole, then turns his focus back to the root cellar. "I can't see her anywhere, but I can smell her."

"Think she's down there?"

"No. There are only three heartbeats."

Stiles sags against his shoulder, exhausted by the sudden, overwhelming wave of relief. "Okay. Okay. Let's—just, sneak down there. We need to find Death's Master."

"I'm going to carry you. Hold the cloak."

Stiles thinks about arguing, but Peter is already lifting him and honestly, he's too wrung out. The stress of the last weeks, the ritual, meeting Death, trekking through the forest while focusing on  _ believing in magic _ ... It's just all too much. The end is near and his body knows it.

There's a humanoid shadow near a tree, only visible from the steps leading down to the root cellar. Stiles stares at her over Peter's shoulder as he slowly makes his way down the stairs,  _ believing _ as hard as he can that the cloak will hide them completely. She does not turn around, even when Peter has to give a hard push to move the water-logged door open, and again to close it.

"What the hell now!"

" _ Dad _ ."

Stiles pulls on the cloak, turning around in Peter's arms, and there he is. His father is  _ alive _ . Bruised and tired looking, wrists shackled against the wall, but  _ alive _ .

"What the— _ Peter Hale _ ? The hospital declared you missing, presumed dead! We spent days scouting the Preserve to find you!"

"Well, what can I say, the reports of my death are greatly exaggerated," Peter answers with his damnable smirk.

"Asshole," Stiles mutters under his breath, then punches his arm lightly to make the wolf let him down on the floor again. "Also, they totally weren't. Just, not the way dad thought."

"What do you m—You know what, never mind, I don't want to know. You've got to go kid, this darach is completely crazy, you're in danger."

"Me?  _ I'm _ in danger? Remind me please which one of us is strung up against a wall like a bad extra from a medieval movie!"

"Son, come on—"

"Sheriff Stilinski, Stiles, can we please  _ move on _ ?"

"Right, sorry, Melissa."

"Sorry."

Stiles punches Peter in the side again, but it does nothing against the ass'  _ smirk _ .

"Look, we got this. We need to do something first, but we got this."

"Stiles, I'm sure Peter gave you some information, but you can't trust him, he lies—"

"Shut right the fuck up, mister 'I stalk and terrorize teenagers for a living because they grow some fur and claws'."

"That's not—"

"Fuck off. I would rather all Argents die in a fire because every single one I've known is batshit insane and completely brainwashed with 'supernatural are monsters and we're the saviors of the world', but newsflash, you're only a savior of anything in your mind, and I have so much more sympathy for all those families that Kate tricked and burned down in their sleep than I have for your 'no one understands me' routine. So, you know, go sit on a cactus."

There's a long moment of silence once Stiles is done. He shuts his eyes and attempts to control his panting breath again. He isn't sure why he reacted like this. Yes, he has issues — many — with the Argents, but... But it's not the moment.

Peter's hand wraps around his neck, solid and warm. "Breath with me, Stiles."

Stiles does, shutting off every other sound from the cellar.

"You need to find the master," Peter murmurs. "Concentrate on me, concentrate on the Stone. We have two relics right here. Stiles, where's the third hallow?"

Stiles has a moment of doubt, a flashing thought that Peter might be trying to gather the Deathly Hallows for himself, but just as fast, it's gone. He  _ knows _ Peter could never wield them without burning himself inside out. No one in this world can use Death's hallows and the only reason Peter managed to build his resurrection ritual around the Stone and they managed to hide under the Cloak through the Preserve is because Death  _ allowed _ it.

"What are you—"

"Concentrate, Stiles. Ignore everything else. Where's the last relic, where's the Master?"

Stiles closes his eyes and breaths out. The Cloak in his hand, cool and smooth to the touch, like holding water in his fingers. Next to him, a spot of Death. Peter, with the power of rebirth burning in his chest.

And on the other side—

"There." Stiles points at something, eyes still close. "There, it's there. There's a spot of Death there too, but... muted."

"Alright."

"Son, what the  _ hell _ did you get involved in?"

"I'll explain later, dad. But we need to uphold our side of the agreement before we can free the three of you, and we need to do that before the bitch shows up again, alright."

"... Alright. I trust you, Stiles."

Tears burn behind his eyes, but Stiles forcefully pushes them away, breathing through the reaction. He turns around. Peter's stalking to the other side of the cellar, toward the nest of roots. Which, it turns out, is not just a mental image. The nemeton's roots have pierced through the packed earth and wooden planks forming the walls of the cellar, bunching together like a living ball of tentacles. It looks a bit too much like an alien nest to Stiles' eyes. 

"I have no idea what to look for," Stiles says.

Peter shrugs without turning around. "Neither do I. But I'm sure we'll know it when we see it." He grabs a few roots and jerks them out of the way.

Stiles watches as the werewolf's muscles bunch under his shirt. Either Peter is still  _ really _ weak post-resurrection, or those roots are a lot more solid than mere wood should be, especially  _ dying _ wood.

"Peter..."

"I know. It's—It won't come out easily, but I've got it."

"For fuck's sake." Stiles rubs his hands over his face, putting pressure on his temples to try to contain the headache he can feel coming, then joins Peter. "Let me help."

Peter looks back, staring at Stiles for a moment, then nods. He puts both hands around one of the topmost root, turning his body sideways. "Grab the one on the other side. Let's try to separate them."

Stiles obeys. He grabs another root, his hands barely closing around the thick wood. He faces Peter, his back to the opposite wall so they can pull in opposite directions, closes his eyes, and  _ believes _ .

"On three. One, two,  _ three _ ."

They pull with all their strength. Stiles can feel the pressure of his hands, the way the root slowly moves toward him as he drags it his way. It's like pulling a loaded jeep. He can feel that he'll almost be able to move it, but so far it barely budges at all.

"Dammit!" He relaxes, unwrapping his hands from around the wood and shaking his numb fingers.

Peter pants at his side. "It's starting to give in. Again."

"Alright."

"Son, are you sure—"

"Not now, dad."

They share a look, then Stiles and Peter grab the roots again. "One, two,  _ three _ ," Peter counts under his breath again as Stiles gathers his energy and concentrates.

They pull, so much, so hard. His hands burn and go numb at once from the pressure, but Stiles doesn't let go. He must  _ believe _ , they can do this, they're stronger than a dying tree, they can break a few freely hanging roots, wood as nothing on werewolf strength!

"Ah!" Stiles crashes against the wall behind as the root he's pulling on give a great cracking sound and breaks in his hands. "Fuck. Peter?"

"I'm fine. You?"

"Bruised but not broken."

Peter pushes himself off the opposite wall, brushing his clothes free from dust, dirt, and wood pieces several times. He steps near the wooden cocoon again and peers between the intertwined roots. "There's something in the middle," he says.

"Of course there is. With our luck, it's going to be a chest-burster egg."

"Don't tempt magic,  _ Stiles _ ."

"Right. Sorry. Alright. Think we can get to it?"

"Yes. If we can pull away the next two roots, you'll be able to slip your hand inside."

"Yours are smaller."

"What?"

"Your hands are smaller than mine," Stiles says, peering at the center of the root ’s nest.

Peter looks down at his hands, then sneaks a peek at Stiles'. "Really?"

"Yes.  _ Focus, creeper-wolf _ ."

"Right. Come here. I don't want to be here longer than needed."

"You and me both, you and me both," Stiles mutters under his breath.

—

The second sets of roots is not quite as hard to break, but it's no picnic either. They have to get rid of another set before the hole in the center becomes accessible.

"Alright, there you go," Stiles says, gesturing at the half-open wooden nest.

"I don't particularly feel like putting my hand in there," Peter answers, arms crossed over his chest.

"Me neither, but we already established that your hands are smaller and we need to free Death's Master, preferably  _ before the darach finds us _ ."

"The what now?!" Chris exclaims behind them, but they ignore him.

"Come on, Peter!" 

The werewolf gives him his best unimpressed eyes, then sighs. "I expect you to make it up for me, Stiles."

"I will, promise!"

"You better." Peter mumbles under his breath — curses, probably — but gets into position. He glances at Stiles, then focuses on the nemeton's roots.

It takes a contortion or two, but Peter eventually slides his hands — and forearms inside. "There's... Ah, a jar of some kind, I think. I can feel glass under my fingers."

"A jar? Really?"

_ A glass jar? How does that make sense,  _ Stiles wonders. He'd gotten the impression that the Master of Death was an actual person. Then again, Death  _ had _ said that his master had been... reborn? Incarnated? in a body not his own in this dimension — and Stiles is  _ carefully _ avoiding any thought of dimensions and alternate realities, for now at least —.

"Can you pull it out? Or is it wedged between the roots?"

A great crash over their heads drowns Peter's words.

"What the hell was that?"

"Thunder," Peter says.

"Thunder? More like the wrath of god!"

Peter shrugs. "Thunder with a side of darach helping, I expect."

"For fuc... It's going to rain, isn't it."

"Yes."

They turn around, staring at the three humans still shackled to the wall, then at the high stairs leading up to the ground. Stiles remembers the waterlogged door they had to force open. "Dammit, the cellar is going to be under water."

"Yeah, probably." Peter thumps his head against the root under his face, then takes a deep breath. "Alright, let's do this."

—

Getting the glass jar out of its wooden nest is more Tetris than brute force this time, and Stiles isn't exactly a great help. He does put his hands over Peter's biceps — and carefully doesn't think about those muscles under his fingers nor that soft skin — and  _ believes _ that Peter can get the jar out without having to break all the roots.

Eventually, they manage it.

"What the—"

The jar, when they finally get it under the barely working light-bulb, is empty.

"Did... we get it wrong?" Stiles asks, brows furrows.

"I don't know. Close your eyes, concentrate on the hallows again."

Stiles does. In front of him, Peter and the Stone, behind him... nothing. But Peter feels stronger,  _ more _ than before.

"No, it's the right thing. There's nothing left in the nest. Are we sure it's empty?"

Peter raises the jar straight under the light, tilting it this way and that way. They all stare at the thing like the answer of the universe will just appear inside. 

"I think there's... some kind of dust at the bottom," Peter says. 

"Or ashes, don't you think? It looks light and a gray-ish color like dust."

"That would make sense. Whatever was in there, it didn't survive the sudden arrival of that much power."

"But did Death's Master survive?"

"Look." 

Peter twists the jar upside down and to an angle, showing off the bottom to Stiles. 

The bottom in which the symbol of the Deathly Hallows is engraved, the same circle/triangle/line symbol that is on the "wall decoration" stuffed inside Stiles pocket.

"Alright, we did get the right thing then."

They exchange a glance. Then Peter turns the jar right side up again and grabs the lid. 

It takes a few attempts to wrench the lid open, Peter's muscles bulging once again — right next to Stiles' face, not that he's thinking about that —, but suddenly the lid turns with a great  _ bang _ . There's a rush of air, as if they'd opened a large vacuum-sealed place. Stiles barely has the time to worry about the darach hearing the noise as he tries to catch his breath before it gets snatched from his mouth.

Then, the silence.

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 💜


	3. Chapter 3

—

There's a man, lying at their feet.

Or at least, a man-shaped being.

Stiles looks down, mouth hanging opened.

The man's back rises as he breathes.

"What. the. fuck." Chris has apparently reached the limits of his patience with them. "What is _going on, dammit_?"

"We made a deal. They gave us the means to find you and skirt around the darach without her knowing and using you as hostages, and in exchange we freed their... master. Which is apparently a man."

"A man-man, or man-shaped?" Stiles asks, still staring down.

"Going by the noises his body makes, a human," Peter answers quietly.

The man — or woman? but Death mentioned a master, not a mistress — chooses that moment to groan and move his arms.

"What the _bloody_ hell?"

Apparently, the Master of Death has a British accent. Stiles does his best to swallow his slightly hysterical giggle.

He takes a deep breath, then kneels down. Peter's clawed hand catches his shoulder before he gets to the ground, and they stare at each other for a moment. Eventually, Peter slowly lets go, his claws sliding over Stiles' hoodie.

"Hi," Stiles says, trying for an upbeat — and not freaked out — tone. "Welcome to Beacon Hills."

The man rolls on his side at once and comes crouched, a wooden stick extended toward them.

"And _that_ greatly looks like a wand. Is that a wand? The Wand of Power, Peter, not the Focus of Power!" Stiles exclaims, lightly punching Peter's side.

"The Elder Wand, actually," the man says. "And you are carrying my Cloak."

He sounds mild and neutral, which doesn't stop Stiles heart from beating twice as fast in his chest.

"Yeah, so, funny story, it's a loan? As in, I needed help to find my dad," he gestures at the adults _still_ shackled to the wall and Stiles already knows that he's never going to live that down, "and there was this ritual except that it failed, or got hijacked, or something because I used the wrong focus. And then I was in this white place—"

The man's head drops as he heaves an enormous sigh, rubbing his forehead. "Marvelous. You visited limbo. In what world is dying in a ritual a good idea?"

"Dying?!"

Stiles springs up on his feet. "I'm fine, dad! I'm fine, look, one hundred percent alive, I'm great!"

"What you are, is marked by Death," the man says as he stands up too, stepping to the side so he can keep them all in sight.

"Okay, yeah, possibly, but hey, it worked! Death said they'd give me something that would hide me from my enemies and help me find our parents, and here we are! In exchange, they wanted us to free you."

"Alright. Well, thank you, at least."

"Here, your Cloak?" Stiles leans forward, holding out the Cloak from the tip of his fingers. He doesn't step forward, he's not that stupid, but Peter still slides an arm around his waist, keeping him back. Or possibly getting ready to pull him out of the fire.

The man looks at them for a moment, then holds out his hand. The Cloak floats right to him, draping itself over his arm.

"I'm Harry. Harry Potter."

"Hum. Stiles Stilinski. Nice to meet you?"

Potter smirks.

"Peter Hale. And those are Chris Argent, Stiles' father is Noah Stilinski, our Sheriff, and Melissa McCall."

"You reek of death and desperation, Mr. Argent," Harry says, eyes locked on the man, his light smile wiped from his face.

"Ah! That'd be because he's a werewolf hunter! Except they're supposed to have a Code, only hunt werewolves who are an actual danger for people, since mundanes like my dad can't actually fight supernatural creatures, you know. But, surprise! The Argents aren't exactly bothered by technicalities like the presumption of innocence. They're more of the 'werewolves therefore certainly guilty' point of view, than anything else."

"You hunt werewolves," Death's Master growls.

Stiles can feel all the little hair rise on Peter's forearm around his waist, which is either freaky and terrifying or exceedingly cool, he can't decide.

"My godfather was a werewolf and one of the best men I've known in my life." Potter stalks up to Argent, ignoring how the man is trying to become one with the dirt wall. "You and those of your line will 'hunt' _only_ those who are actually a danger to people, from now and for ever, or you will be _mine_ ," Potter declares. His voice swells in the locked room, bouncing off the walls and reverberating through their skulls. The symbol of the hallows burns itself over Argent's chest and his mouth opens on a silent scream.

"And don't attempt to get around the curse," Potter says in the silence, taking a few steps back. He smirks, a mirthless smile at odds with the way he's still glaring at Argent. "It's the intent that matters, not the exact wording. Word to the wise, Mr. Hunter; make damn sure that your victims are guilty, from now on."

Argent nods a couple of time, hanging from his shackles like he's lost every single bit of strength.

"Bloody hell." Potter rubs his face, shoulders dropping. "I—well, I'd say that I didn't mean to do that, but I don't regret it actually, so." He shrugs at no one, then pulls himself up. "So. You had my Cloak. And _you_ ," he points his wand at Peter, "you have my _Stone_."

Stiles can feel the muscles of Peter's arm tensing against his stomach. "Yes. I am, however, not in the position of giving it back."

"Well, if you don't want to crash in a big pile of dead meat, no, I don't think you are."

"What."

Potter looks at Stiles — up, because the _Master of Death_ is actually shorter than Stiles, wow — and shrugs. "His body is holding by magic, and will, and Death's mark. Take the Hallow out and he'll die on the spot, if he's lucky." Potter rubs his fingers over the Cloak. "And you are linked to my Cloak," he murmurs, head tilting to the side.

"Okay, all this is great and I'm glad you all understand each other," Melissa butts in the conversation with a glare, "but could you, _possibly_ , free us?! Please!"

"Right." Stiles rushes toward them and of course stumbles over a non-existent root. Peter catches him before he can kiss the ground, thankfully.

"Let me," Potter says. He raises his wand and mutters a word that Stiles doesn't understand. It starts with 'al-something', but that's about all he gets before the word is swallowed by a strange distortion of sound.

There's a resounding _click_ and the shackles fall open all at once. Chris and Stiles' dad catch Melissa before she can fall to her knees, but none of them look in great form.

"You mentioned enemies," Potter says.

"Hum, yeah. There's a darach outside, and a pack of Alpha wolves who'd really like to fuck Derek's pack. Derek is Peter's nephew and our Alpha," Stiles explains.

"Was."

"What?"

"Derek _was_ the Alpha. He used the power of his Alpha spark to heal Cora. I have no idea where it has gone, though."

"In you."

This time both Peter and Stiles ends up asking "What?" and turning to face Potter again.

Potter shrugs. "It's in you. I was wondering what was that bundle of power in your chest, but it has to be the Alpha spark. Which, by the way, means that packs here are separated by Alpha and Betas? The leader and the pack members? Still, there's something weird going on with your... spark. It's like there's a... hook pulling at the power from outside. And since it's so busy trying to heal you, it doesn't have the strength to fend off an external attack."

"Dammit, that's probably the darach," Stiles curses, patting Peter's chest like it'll force the power down. "Can you do anything about it?"

Potter frowns. "Well, probably. First, a darach? What's that?"

"Druid gone to the Dark Side," Stiles explains. "Instead of working for the balance of magic in nature, they try to pull it to themselves and gorge themselves on the stuff. This one has a grudge, an understandable one at that, against the Alpha Pack, and she's been using rituals to bloat herself with power so she can kill them. She's killed twelve people and was about to kill our parents too."

"A five-fold knot."

"Exactly. She's got everyone except..."

"The Guardians," Potter finishes, glancing at the Sheriff's insignia.

"Yeah. Death's Cloak let us sneak in the cellar to free you and our parents, but now the darach is outside, about to use the nemeton for more of her bullshit. Death said you'd deal with our enemies."

"The Alpha Pack, maybe, if they show up and are aggressive, but the darach definitely. I hate practitioners of black magic," Potter growls with a disgusted scowl. "But you said there was a nemeton? I felt nothing like that power near."

"It's been cut down sometimes in the last two decades," Peter explains. "I don't even remember seeing it standing. And there have been several dark rituals and murders near it. We suspect that several of the dead from the five-fold knots were killed here."

"Marvelous. A weakened nemeton soaked in black death magic. Because that's not the stuff of nightmares right there." Potter pinches his nose, eyes closed and a pained expression on his face. Then he sighs and straightens up again after a moment. "Alright. Of course I'm going to cleanse this place, I'm living on this planet now, I'm not going to let it rot under my feet because _someone_ had the bright idea of corrupting a goddamn nemeton. All of you stay down here," Potter says, glaring straight at the adults. "You," he points at the werewolf, "you're the last line of defense in case something slips by me. And you," he points at Stiles, "take care of my Cloak and use it to hide you all if the fight gets too close."

"Yes, sir." Peter answers at once, without a smirk or a playful tone, which tells Stiles everything he needs to know about how serious the moment is.

"Right, your power."

Potter raises his wand and _slashes_ at the air next to Peter's head. A beam of bright green light rushes in the space between Stiles and Peter, crashing against an invisible wall and bursting into flame. A rope of brackish dark brown light flares, one end peeling from where it's anchored to Peter's chest, and disappearing in dust motes.

" _Jesus_ ," someone murmurs behind them as Peter falls against Stiles' side.

"There. I've no idea who set up the hook to pump your power, but the backlash to _that_ is going to destroy almost all their power. If they're half-smart, it won't be visible or enough to find them, but you don't have to worry about them trying again. They'll take years to rebuild their power and they'll probably die before, anyway. They were pulling as much wolf magic as death magic with their little stunt, and they didn't have Death's mark to keep the death magic from eating them alive," Potter explains with a dark smirk.

"That's... great. Thank you," Peter murmurs, making no move to get himself on his own feet without Stiles holding him up.

"Here we go," Potter mutters to himself as he stalks outside, the cellar door flying open without a noise with a flick of his wand, then silently slamming close behind him.

"Son," the Sheriff says after a long moment of silence. "You have _so much to tell me_ , you better start planning that talk in your mind because you will not get away with it. Also, you're grounded."

"Dad!"

"Until your goddamn majority!"

" _Dad_!"

Peter is snickering against his neck, which is _not_ helping. Stiles throws his best puppy eyes in his father's direction, but the man stays stone faced.

"Sorry, dad," Stiles sighs. "It's just, _so much_ happened in the last months, it was... complicated."

"You don't say. I want to know everything I missed. Starting with why that man called you _Marked by Death, Stiles_!"

"So, funny story, Death is an actual real life entity? And we used that ritual to find you guys, except we needed a focus and I used the old Stilinski amulet that's always been on the wall in your bedroom? Well, turns out that it's the symbol of the Deathly Hallows, which are Death's relics, and it... called out to them? Or something? So instead of finding you or a clue to find you, I found Death who said he'd give me what I wanted if I freed his master," Stiles gestures vaguely toward the cellar entrance, "who'd been stuck in a magic trap since he'd moved to this dimension. Or something. It's a bit of a blur in my mind, between the overwhelming terror and mind-blowing fear for you, you know."

"Oh, Stiles."

His dad steps forward and a moment later Stiles ends up crushed in his father's arms, which is such a relief that he can barely deal with it. Meanwhile, Peter almost falls against them when they move and he's _still_ holding onto Stiles to stay upright, which is a mind trip of its own. Stiles tries to ignore how weak Peter is because otherwise his mind will spiral into panic again.

"What do you think they're—"

An unhinged scream interrupts Melissa's question, quickly followed by a loud explosion.

Light flashes through the cracks on the cellar door, brightly colored, mostly in that poisonous green that Potter used against the curse leaching from Peter. Stiles can hear him call out spells, though he doesn't understand the words themselves. They're indecipherable, no matter how loudly Potter scream them. They can hear the darach though, screeching and yelling with anger.

"I thought regular magic users couldn't just use magic like that," Stiles murmurs to Peter.

"Well, Potter is a bit of a different horse, I'd say," Peter answers wryly.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Not _Potter_. I mean the darach. How can she fight back?"

"Because the ritual was already halfway done, I expect. And she's bloated with stolen magic from the nemeton too, which is all boosted by the deaths she's used to feed her power. She must be burning herself from the inside-out, using that much power so fast when her body isn't supposed to be able to, but she doesn't exactly have long-term plans."

"Right, good point."

Stiles' answer is almost lost under more exceedingly loud explosions. Then they are howls, coming closer by the second.

"Fuck, the Alpha Pack. Peter—"

"Trust him. If anyone can fight off a darach and a pack of rabid wolves at once, it's the Master of Death. I doubt he can die, anyway."

Stiles snorts, then presses his face against Peter's shoulder as the world above devolves into snarls and growls and pain filled cries.

—

Stiles has no idea how long the battle lasts. He's clutching Peter's hand in one hand and Death's Cloak in the other. They're all staring at the door like it'll give them explanations and maybe a view of the battle, but all they see are flashes of light. Going by the sounds, the wolves have been dealt with. They wait to see who'll come on top of the fight, their breath loud in the enclosed space.

Eventually, there are no more flashes of light nor loud noises.

Stiles straightens, though he doesn't stop hugging the Cloak to his chest, and takes one step forward, wondering if—

"You killed them!" Scott screams above them.

"Of course, I did." Potter answers, sounding supremely unimpressed.

"Why would you do that?!"

"Because they were murderers?" Potter sounds like he doesn't understand why they're even having this conversation. Not that Stiles gets it either. "They butchered close to a hundred people between them," Potter says, his voice moving closer. "I'm not in the habit of letting serial killers roam around innocent people."

"But—"

"Shut up, kid. I don't care about your opinion."

"I'm not a kid!"

"You're a pain in my ass and I don't have to explain myself to you. Shoo, puppy."

"I—"

Before Scott can get himself in hotter water with the Master of Death, said Master wrenches the cellar door opened. "You can come out, I'm done, it's safe."

"Oh thank god," Melissa mutters.

That's when Stiles remembers Melissa has never been great with enclosed spaces and he feels vaguely guilty for not having attempted to help, even though she hadn't looked bothered.

They emerge near the nemeton, finally visible in the weak light of morning. There's a goddamn shield over their heads, _protecting them from the rain_. Stiles stares up for a long moment, then snaps his mouth closed and looks around.

Potter catches his eyes and shrugs. "I hate fighting under the rain, especially on muddy ground."

 _Right, because one can just shield oneself from the rain, in case of battles,_ Stiles thinks a bit hysterically. He clamps his mouth shut to keep the words behind his teeth and focuses on helping Peter move.

The entire pack is here, an invisible line separating Derek's—those who used to be Derek's pack — from Scott's friends. And on one side, Deucalion lies, thrown on top of a small heap of bodies, the darach thrown near. Scott is still trying to get in Potter's face, though Melissa is pulling him back, helped by Isaac.

Potter is staring at the stump of the nemeton. Eventually, he looks back at where Stiles is standing with Peter and his dad. "I'll deal with this tomorrow. I'm tired and I'm going to need to use a full-blown _ritual_ to cleanse the nemeton, this clearing, and the bodies. Which would tell you how close to fucked this planet was, if you knew how much I don't need ritual unless in case of huge uses of magic."

"Yeah, Peter explained a bit about that. But you can cleanse it?"

“Yes. It’s strong and smart. It’s hanging on so far, using the ley lines to compensate for all the bullshit that has been happening around, but it wouldn’t have lasted much longer. It’s going to take me _days_ to fully cleanse this forest, though. I don’t suppose you’d have a free room in which I could crash?”

In the light of day, when there isn’t the prospect of a fight near, Potter looks… younger, closer to Stiles' age than Peter's even, Stiles realizes. Younger and tired, not just from the fight. “Sure,” he answers automatically, because hell, that’s the least he can do for a guy who helped save his father and freed Peter from some kind of leech curse, but also… There’s so much he could learn from him and Potter knows no one and nothing on this planet. He could get information _and_ help the guy at once.

“Alright, sure, why not,” the Sheriff declares, throwing his arms up. “A room for some magical fairy and one for a dead man, no problem. Hell, it’s the least I can do,” he tells Potter after a moment. “Thank you for saving our lives.”

Potter nods, then smirks at Peter. “Which one of us is the fairy and which one is the dead man, anyway.”

And Stiles laughs and laughs, which is at least fifty percent his nerves giving in, but he’s safe, his dad is safe, the pack is safe, and he even has a new friend strong enough to protect his family. Right now, things are _great._

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are! I hope that you enjoyed this story everyone 💜

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 💜


End file.
